By Dipak Kurmi
The National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) has recently invited scrutiny and sparked nationwide debate with a seemingly innocuous change — the renaming of English textbooks for Classes VI, VII, and VIII from titles like Honeysuckle to Hindi names such as Poorvi, Mridang, and Santoor. Defended by officials as an attempt to infuse Indian artistic and cultural ethos into educational materials, this decision is anything but benign. On closer examination, it reveals a deeper ideological project rooted in linguistic majoritarianism, symbolic assertion of northern cultural dominance, and a dangerous homogenisation that threatens the pluralistic character of Indian society.
According to the NCERT, these new names are drawn from India’s rich artistic traditions and are not merely “Hindi” but pan-Indian cultural symbols. Poorvi, for instance, is explained not just as a Hindi word but as a raga in Hindustani classical music — a metaphor, they claim, for the harmony of an eastern dawn. By evoking the realm of classical music, these names are purportedly elevated above the domain of language and placed in a universal cultural register. Yet, this narrative is disingenuous at best. It overlooks the immediate and material reality of how language operates in Indian classrooms, particularly in regions where Hindi is neither spoken nor understood.
Proponents of this change have invoked Shakespeare’s oft-quoted rhetorical question — “What’s in a name?” — suggesting that these titular changes are too trivial to warrant such outrage. But therein lies a glaring logical contradiction. If there is truly nothing in a name, why change it at all? The act of renaming English textbooks with Hindi words transliterated into Roman script, while simultaneously dismissing concerns about linguistic overreach, reveals the fallacy and selective application of this argument. Would these same defenders embrace naming Hindi textbooks Harmony or Sanskrit primers Twinkle? The cognitive dissonance this would produce among the proponents of the NCERT’s move exposes their insincerity. Names are not neutral; they carry symbolic weight, convey cultural affiliations, and shape perceptions of identity and belonging — a reality recognised by the NCERT, even as it denies the political implications of its choices.
These textbooks are part of a broader pedagogical overhaul aligned with the National Education Policy (NEP) 2020 and operationalised through the National Curriculum Framework for School Education (NCFSE) 2023. The stated goals include the indigenisation of content, promotion of ecological awareness, disability sensitivity, gender equality, and digital literacy. The materials are structured with student-friendly sections such as ‘Let us listen’, ‘Let us speak’, and so on, while aiming to reflect the lived experiences of Indian children. English poems like Rain, Rain, Go Away, deemed irrelevant to India’s climatic realities, are being replaced with content rooted in Indian seasons, stories, and culture. This shift, ostensibly, is meant to foster relevance and pride among students.
However, the deeper implications of these changes cannot be overlooked, especially in non-Hindi-speaking states where such decisions are seen not as cultural enrichment but as cultural imposition. Kerala’s Education Minister V. Sivankutty described the renaming as a “violation of common logic” and questioned the rationale of giving Hindi names to English textbooks. His criticism is more than symbolic: it reflects a growing discontent in states where linguistic and cultural identities are being eroded in the name of national integration.
Indeed, the renaming of an English textbook as Poorvi — regardless of its musical connotations — illustrates an ironic contradiction: a global language presented through a Hindi lens. For a child in rural Tamil Nadu, Odisha, or Meghalaya, the word Poorvi has little to no contextual meaning. Transliterating it into Roman script does not bridge the gap; rather, it widens it. The pronunciation may be unfamiliar, the cultural reference obscure, and the educational experience more alienating than engaging. This represents not unity in diversity, but a subtle marginalisation — one that reinforces Hindi as the cultural norm and relegates other languages to the periphery.
This renaming exercise must also be seen in the light of the NEP 2020’s broader ideological framework. By projecting a vision of ‘Ek Bharat, Shreshtha Bharat’, the policy claims to celebrate unity through diversity. In practice, however, it increasingly appears as a project of national uniformity — privileging Hindi and northern cultural values while sidelining India’s vast mosaic of regional languages and traditions. The symbolic imposition of Hindi in English textbooks is but one of many steps in this larger ideological choreography. Even within these textbooks, the near-total absence of characters, festivals, or cultural motifs representing Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Jains, Buddhists, or Parsis is telling. The erasure of non-Hindu cultural references reflects a narrowing cultural imagination — one that seeks to mould young minds within a selective and sanitised vision of Indian identity.
Crucially, language is not merely a communication tool; it is the very medium through which we perceive the world. The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis underscores how language structures influence our perception of reality. English, for most Indian students, is a second language — structurally different from their mother tongues. It is through language that students learn to question authority, imagine possibilities, understand societal roles, and participate in civic life. Thus, the pedagogical choices made in teaching English — from names to content — are critical in shaping their worldview.
This tension between indigenisation and ideological indoctrination is further complicated by the economic dimensions of English Language Teaching (ELT). In today’s globalised, neoliberal world, ELT is expected to prepare students for international communication and employment. The market value of English, both within India and globally, is significant. Yet, by using English textbooks to “instill” Indian values — particularly those associated with a narrow cultural spectrum — the state introduces a contradictory pedagogy. It implies that Indian languages are insufficient to impart Indian ethos and simultaneously treats English as a mere vessel for nationalist programming, thus stripping it of its own cultural and intellectual traditions.
This paradox echoes the colonial logic of Lord Macaulay’s infamous 1835 minute, which advocated for the creation of a class of Indians “Indian in blood and colour, but English in taste, in opinions, in morals, and in intellect.” Ironically, the NEP and NCERT’s implementation appears to replicate this colonial strategy, albeit with an indigenous twist — replacing British imperial culture with an Indian majoritarian one. The idea of pride, then, becomes performative rather than organic, enforced rather than experienced.
Even the tokenism in the textbook content does little to assuage concerns. A solitary folk tale from the south, a passing mention of northeastern festivals, or a vague allusion to a pan-Indian cultural form does not constitute genuine representation. These gestures appear more like box-ticking exercises than sincere attempts at inclusivity. Meanwhile, the dominant narrative remains tied to northern, Hindi-speaking culture — in music, idioms, aesthetics, and symbolism. This disproportionate representation not only fails to reflect India’s linguistic plurality but also reinforces harmful hierarchies.
Further compounding these issues is the apparent lack of attention to detail within the very materials meant to inspire national pride. In the Poorvi textbook for Class 7, the Indian national flag is reportedly displayed with its colours inverted — a symbolic blunder that lays bare the contradiction between intent and execution. In an environment where the government regularly invokes the flag as a sacred emblem of national identity, such a mistake is more than an editorial oversight. It becomes a metaphor for the inverted priorities of an education system that pays lip service to pluralism while enacting cultural centralisation.
What the NEP and NCFSE fail to grasp is that critical pedagogy — especially in the context of ELT — is a powerful tool to help students analyse the very structures of inequality and injustice they live within. A progressive curriculum could have encouraged students to see language not as a vehicle of state ideology but as a means of questioning it. It could have used English to empower, not indoctrinate. But in choosing to conflate nationalism with education, the state has turned a site of learning into one of cultural assertion.
India’s educational future depends not on homogenising identities but on embracing multiplicity. Language is not the enemy of unity — it is its greatest resource. The resistance from southern and northeastern states, from educators, parents, and civil society, is not just about a few textbook titles. It is a protest against a creeping cultural centralisation that risks turning education into a battleground for identity.
In the end, naming is never a neutral act. It is a claim to meaning, to identity, and to power. When a government renames English textbooks with Hindi titles, it is not merely exercising administrative discretion. It is making a cultural statement — one that has profound implications for how young Indians see themselves and each other. Whether India chooses to be a federation of cultures or a monument to majoritarianism will depend, in part, on whether its classrooms remain sites of diversity — or become echo chambers of a single voice.
(The writer can be reached at dipakkurmiglpltd@gmail.com)
